Archive of Our Own

It’s friday afternoon, and Iceman’s in the locker rooms after today’s hop, towel hung low over his hips as he rummages through his duffel bag for his deodorant. He’s grateful he took the opportunity to shower first, because somewhere in the showers he hears Slider and Merlin scream at each other. A bottle of shampoo is thrown back and forth before Hollywood hurls his towel at one of them with a wet smack , effectively earning a few complaining groans and a loud slap to Hollywood’s ass, followed by more screaming. 

Chipper and Sundown are in front of the sinks, half-undressed as they look at themselves through the mirrors, flexing their muscles in each other’s faces. Judging by the amount of times Iceman has seen them do it, if there’s anyone among them who actually holds dick measuring competitions, it’s definitely one of them.

Iceman tries to tune out from the chaos, quickly applying his deodorant as he rearranges his dogtags so they aren’t falling in front of him all the time. From the corner of his eye he sees a half-soaking Wolfman paddle into the room, who grabs an extra towel from one of the benches with a sigh and heads to the showers. He’s rewarded by obnoxious fake kissing noises —from who Iceman presumes to be Hollywood— as well as a loud chorus of whistles and catcalls from the others.

Everyone seems to be in a good mood after Viper announced their three week leave after what happened in Layton. Iceman vaguely remembers Slider being excited about visiting his family in Virginia, at the other side of the States. Part of him is happy for Slider, but even so, he mourns the fact that he’ll have to spend these few weeks without his company. Iceman can’t say that he’s looking forward to seeing his own family, but he’ll pay his father and his wife a visit as he always does (and then, spend the rest of his leave wishing his mother and sisters didn’t live so far away).

The sound of a locker opening behind him has Iceman realizing that he’s, in fact, not the only person in the locker room. The ruckus in the showers has long calmed down, and the sound of the water hissing is the only audible thing aside from the occasional quip between the group of aviators. He’s not butt-naked, but even if he was, he’s already used to changing in front of people with enough efficiency as to not flash anyone, so he pays no mind to whoever is probably starting to dress up behind him. 

Iceman wordlessly throws on a polo and shucks on his pants. He fumbles with the belt before he sits on the bench, leaning down to lace his boots. Slider will give him a ride later, so for now, he has no option but to wait for him to finish showering. 

He clicks his locker shut and turns around. He’s met with Maverick’s bare back, a towel hung around his neck and another on his hips, a mirror to Iceman’s previous look. Maverick stands unmoving, facing the inside of the locker as his hand rests over the frame. Iceman looks at him in silence, observing how Maverick’s shoulders rise and fall almost imperceptibly with every breath he takes. 

His hair is still wet, some of the droplets of water falling over the towel on his neck as some drip down the planes of his back, rolling to the small of his back where they meet the towel on his hips. 

Iceman’s hand rises, but he hesitates to reach out to Maverick—he’s been quiet, oddly so, as if he was lost in his thoughts. Despite it already being a while since he arrived at the locker room, he still hasn’t changed into his civvies. None of the pilots take more than a few minutes to change, much less Maverick who always goes through life like his ass is on fire.

Iceman gulps, tilting his head back and looking at the ceiling before sniffing. It’s a nervous tick of his, one he never manages to shake off. 

“Maverick?” Iceman asks tentatively, hand still hovering in front of him but not quite reaching out yet. He takes notice of how ridiculous he must look and quickly lowers it.

Maverick visibly flinches when he hears Iceman calling him, half-turning his head to look at Iceman above his shoulder.

“Yeah?” His voice is a bit hoarse, but still audible over the murmur coming from the showers. 

“You okay?” It comes out softer than Iceman expected it to be, a lilt of concern coloring his tone. Maverick seems surprised as well, eyebrows raising to his hairline before he nods.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, but it doesn’t really sound convincing enough. “Yeah, I’m– I’m alright.”

Maverick’s eyes linger for a millisecond on his before he turns back to his locker. Iceman circles the bench until he’s at Maverick’s side, leaning back on a closed locker as he gives Maverick a sidelong glance. 

“I don’t want to prod, but,” Iceman looks away from Maverick as he speaks, “you look…odd. You sure you’re not sick or something?”

“Been checking me out, Kazansky?” Maverick shoots back with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Iceman gives him an unimpressed look but doesn’t reply, and Maverick deflates a bit at the reaction. The corners of his mouth smoothen back to his neutral expression as he turns to grab something from his locker. 

“I’ve just been…thinking,” he turns around and throws the pair of white socks onto the bench, but doesn’t meet Iceman’s eyes. “Three weeks of leave, yeah?”

Iceman doesn’t add to the conversation, only giving Maverick an acknowledging hum, encouraging him to keep speaking. Maverick stands in silence for a few seconds before he drops back onto the bench, legs spread in front of him as he tightly clasps his hands on his lap. He takes a breath, head lolling forward when he exhales. He intently stares at the floor tiles between his feet before he opens his mouth to speak again.

“I used to spend all my leaves with Goose,” he confesses as he fiddles with his hands, “But uh, y’know how the thing is now. It’s my first leave without him and I– I miss him, man.”

“I feel you. He was a good guy,” Iceman says softly after a pause. Maverick looks up at him with a wistful smile etched on his lips.

“Yeah. He was the best.” Maverick runs a hand through his hair and grimaces at the wetness there. He wipes his hand on the damp towel covering his thighs. “So, I guess I’m mostly spending this leave alone.”

“What about Carole and Bradley?” Iceman asks before he can stop himself from doing so. “I mean, you’re close with them too, right?”

Surprisingly, Maverick chuckles at this. A small smile makes up his features before he speaks again. 

“Carole already invited me over for a few days, in fact. That’s why I said mostly .” Iceman wordlessly tilts his head in surrender at Maverick’s remark. “I’ll also have Bradley over for a weekend since Carole is going out of San Diego.”

“I see. I spend most of my leaves with Slider since our days at the academy, so I kind of understand how you feel about it now,” he adds the last part hesitatingly, but Maverick’s eyes soften a bit at his words.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it, really,” Maverick responds earnestly, albeit a bit awkwardly. He grabs the towel that hangs around his neck and starts rubbing his hair with it, making quick work of drying it. 

Iceman huffs. “So, I guess we’re both on our own for this leave,” he comments wryly.

“Uh? You’re not going with Slider this time?” Maverick asks, his voice muffled from where the towel is now pressed against his face.

“Nah, Slider’s going to Virginia to visit his family,” Iceman replies without missing a beat, “joined them last time for their road trip around Los Angeles, but I don’t really feel like cramming into a commercial plane for, what, six hours? I’ll go to the seaside to visit my father, but after that, I’m on my own.”

“Fair enough. I don’t really enjoy commercial flights either,” Maverick adds with a shrug. He doesn’t comment on Iceman’s father. “I’d rather be piloting the plane.”

“With the way you fly, I wouldn’t even trust you with my luggage, Mitchell. Maybe stick to fighter jets for now.”

Maverick is about to make a remark when Hollywood stumbles into the room. He raises an eyebrow as he looks at the pair— judges them, Maverick sitting on the bench and Iceman in front of him.

“Kazansky,” he whistles after a second, “didn’t think you’d be that kinda guy.”

Iceman gives him a puzzled look from where he’s still leaning against the lockers, arms crossed over his chest and his whole body facing Maverick. Hollywood jerks his chin towards the two of them, flashing them that movie-star smile of his that earned him his callsign back in Annapolis.

“Whatcha doin’, watching Mav dress-up? Didn’t peg you for a pervert,” he drawls as he wiggles his eyebrows. 

Iceman rolls his eyes but he doesn’t move from where he stands, only looks away from Maverick as he starts putting his shirt on, giving Hollywood his attention as he replies.

“So I’m not allowed to have a little chat with a friend? Damn it, Hollywood, should’ve told me sooner,” Iceman questions Hollywood with a raised eyebrow.

Iceman feels two sets of eyes land on him at the mention of the word friend , and he really wishes he could crawl into a locker and die. He’s not embarrassed to admit that he finds Maverick to be more than a fellow pilot, but he really doesn’t know if Maverick thinks the same of him— the words “You can be mine” still resonate in his head, and yet he can’t truly make sense out of them.

It makes a wave of shame wash over him, every single time without fail, when he remembers how he yelled at Maverick on the carrier, “ you’re still dangerous, but you can be my wingman anytime ”. Needless to say, once the adrenaline wore off, Iceman spent the whole night wondering why he couldn't have picked literally any other sentence to embarrass himself with. 

Thankfully, Slider joins them just before either Hollywood or Maverick can choose to comment on Iceman’s unfortunate slip-up. He’s followed suit by Merlin who's explaining something to Chipper, his hands moving in the same exaggerated motions they always do when he’s really into a topic. Sundown is the last one to join them, his hand clutching a half-beaten bottle of shampoo as he flips Wolfman off. 

Iceman pulls away from where he rested against the lockers. He drops on the bench beside Maverick, but facing the opposite direction, looking at Slider as he takes his sweet time patting his hair dry in front of the mirror. 

He fidgets with the hem of his polo as he waits for Slider to hurry the fuck up and put his clothes on. Iceman can’t wait to flee from the place.

“So, has anyone made plans for their leave?”

Slider off-handedly drops the question and everyone turns to look at him. The room is in utter silence for a second before Sundown slams his locker shut with a wide grin.

“Well, here Chipper, Merlin and I have planned out a trip to Las Vegas with Cougar.”

“Ooh fancy shit, not bad, boys!” Wolfman chirps before he elbows Hollywood in the ribs. “Here Hollywood is going with me to Texas because his poor ass got dumped.”

“Fuck off man, that was months ago,” Hollywood flips him off and shrugs, “we’re on good terms though, she just couldn’t handle the deployments. We’re still friends, unlike someone who can’t break up amicably.”

Hollywood manages to dodge the offended kick that Wolfman propels to his shin at the comment. 

“And what about ya, Slider? Got a girlfriend to visit these weeks?” Chipper claps him in the back with a smile on his face.

“Nah, not yet. I’m flying to Virginia to meet my fam, but I'm pretty sure my mother has already set me up with one of her friend’s daughter or something.” Slider waves his hand dismissively. “It’s the yearly tradition at this point. Look, I appreciate her caring for me, but I don’t think it’ll ever work out in that way. I gotta find my girl and win her over on my own, y’know?”

“Didn’t take you for a romantic, Kerner!” Wolfman throws his head back with a laugh before adding a bit more seriously. “But yeah, I agree. I don’t think I’ll ever find my lifelong partner on a random Sunday at the club. It’s probably gonna be someone I’ve known for like, my whole life.”

“So, does our dear Hollywood stand a chance over here?” Slider comments with a shit-eating grin, shoving Hollywood towards Wolfman without much heat.

A chorus of ooh’ s resonates in the room. Someone whistles, and Maverick pops out of the shirt he’s pulling over his head and looks at the pair. 

“Should we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of this leave?” he teases before both Hollywood and Wolfman flip him off at the same time, and the rest cackle at their reaction.

Iceman actually snorts at Maverick’s comment. The sound drives everyone’s attention towards him, and by the way they’re looking at him, he already knows that he’s going to regret it.

“Iceman, dude!” Sundown creeps closer, rubbing his hands together with a smirk. “Got any cute girlfriend you’re hiding from us?”

“Come on now, of course he does!” Chipper exclaims, “Mr. Ice-cold, no mistakes; he’s as suave as they make them. If he’s not already married then I don’t think true love really exists anymore.”

“Yeah, Tom, you’re not hiding a secret wife from me, no? I’m your best friend!”

Slider actually has the gall to ask him out loud. You fucker, Iceman narrows his eyes at him. 

“He’s right, he’s right! How’s the missus, Iceman?”

Iceman raises an eyebrow at the question and glances around him. Six pairs of expectant eyes look at him and for the second time today Iceman wishes to crawl into a locker and die. Even Maverick seems to be curious. This day couldn’t be any worse.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Iceman replies as nonchalantly as he can manage. “And no wife, either,” he adds as he glares at Slider.

“True love is dead!” Chipper gasps dramatically as he wipes his metaphorical tears with Sundown’s shirt. Sundown pushes his head away, but Chipper resists. Iceman only replies with a half-hearted shrug.

“Forget about Hollywood and Wolfman’s engagement, we gotta find Kazansky a date– !” Chipper exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Since when the fuck were we engaged?!” Hollywood and Wolfman inquire at the same time.

“Who cares anyway!” Slider throws his arms in the air. “Tom Kazansky has no girlfriend, the apocalypse is approaching!”

Iceman rolls his eyes and wonders how he even became friends with Slider in the first place. 

The conversation quickly moves onto how Iceman likes his women, and he can’t help but quietly chuckle at the irony—Iceman doesn’t even like women in the first place, but he really sees no point in commenting on it. Plus, Slider knows it already—Iceman had drunkenly confessed it to him two years into the academy, the secret spilled by a shit-faced Tom after a petty argument he held over the phone with his father. Iceman made Slider swear on all his relatives’ lives that he’d never tell a soul about it.

Whatever scandal Slider is causing right now, he’s just doing it for the shits and giggles, according to him. And honestly, Iceman admits that it’s fun to see the other aviators argue with each other about his type and then miss the target by a mile and a half. 

He’s so entertained by the back-and-forth of the conversation that he nearly misses Maverick sitting down beside him. 

“So, a friend ?” Maverick whispers to him. Any other day he’d think Maverick is teasing him, poking and prodding around at the slight crack on Iceman’s facade, but the way his voice is lowered makes the question feel almost sincere and personal .

It takes a second for Iceman’s brain to come back online and realize what Maverick is asking him about. God, he knew he wouldn’t be able to escape this situation. He braces himself for the worst outcome, even though the most rational part of his brain knows there’s nothing to worry about.

“Yeah. A friend,” Iceman whispers back, leaning a bit into Maverick, “despite being a pain in my ass, I’d say you’re not bad, Mitchell.”

The corners of Maverick’s lips quirk upwards. The smile is evident in the way his eyes crinkle a bit, and Iceman traces the shape of his eyes, black eyelashes framing that bottomless green glinting with the artificial light from their locker room; the slope of his roman nose, down to the curve of his lips. He tears his eyes away when he notices himself staring.

A breathy laugh leaves Maverick as he bumps his shoulder against Iceman’s, before he angles his head and crowds into Iceman’s space, drawling almost directly into his ear.

“You’re not quite bad yourself either, Kazansky.” 

Iceman feels his stomach do a flip at that. He recognizes a tease if he’s ever seen one, and he forces himself not to freeze at the feeling of Maverick’s hot breath fanning over his skin. The easy grin he gives Maverick in response is plastered to his face by the sheer strength of his willpower alone. 

Iceman has plans , a thirty-something years long plan he’s carved in the back of his skull with a chisel and a hammer the very first day he set his eyes on a plane, so as to never forget it. Said plan includes climbing the Navy ranks as quickly as possible, earning as many medals as he can and marrying the first woman that will be okay with Iceman being gone nine out of twelve months a year. And because having a wife is what he’s expected to do, Tom has long grown past the idea of staying single forever if he’s unable to find a man he’ll be willing to stay with until he grows old. 

Said plan doesn’t include a cocky sonofabitch in the shape of a pilot that only screams danger and pain in the ass . It’ll be a cold day in hell before Iceman throws his meticulous planning out of the window because a green-eyed brunet named Pete fucking Mitchell makes him wish he could do so. 

Maverick returns the grin easily and pats Iceman’s shoulder twice before he turns around to pack his things. He looks up from where he’s sitting and he’s met with Slider’s eyes. Iceman gets a raised eyebrow from Slider, to which he responds by rolling his eyes.

The chatter doesn’t die down on the way out of the locker rooms. Almost everyone has plans, and all of them are excited to spend some time on solid ground. Hollywood and Wolfman are bickering with Slider, Iceman trailing behind them as he and Maverick engage in conversation with Sundown, Merlin and Chipper about their trip to Las Vegas.

They bid their goodbye’s, and Iceman slings an arm over Merlin.

“Say hi to Cougar for me, yeah?”

“Will do, Kazansky, count on it,” Merlin promises him, Chipper and Sundown giving him a two-finger salute for extra reassurance.

“Alright boys, seeya in three weeks!” Hollywood singsongs as he and Wolfman make a beeline for the exit, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Get laid, I guess,” Maverick shrugs in faux nonchalance. “I’ll see what I can do to avoid that.”

A last round of laughs erupts at the comment. Wolfman claps Maverick’s back as he and Hollywood wave at them on their way out of the building, and it’s only after they say goodbye to Sundown, Chipper and Merlin when Slider decides to remember the wrist watch he forgot in the locker rooms.

“I’ll be back! Wait for me!” Slider tosses Iceman his duffel bag as he sprints back into the building and down the hall without waiting for an answer.

“As if I had a choice,” Iceman says to no one in particular as he sighs. “Hope this dumbass didn’t also forget his car keys.”

Iceman is scrambling through Slider’s bag —it’s something he has years of experience at— in search of the car keys when Maverick’s voice pipes in from beside him.

“Surely rummaging through your RIO’s bag isn’t proper pilot etiquette,” Maverick comments with a raised eyebrow. 

“NATOPS never said anything about it, so,” Iceman responds without looking up as he fishes the keys out by the ugly Eiffel Tower keychain it’s linked to. He barks a laugh when he lets it dangle in front of him. “Jesus, I can’t believe he still keeps this shit. I bought this for him like, five years ago.”

“That’s hell of a keychain,” Maverick comments. “You went to Paris?”

“Nah, it was Provence. They just sell these everywhere in France,” he wiggles the keychain, “Thought it was ugly enough for Slider, so I got it in a heartbeat.”

Maverick throws his head back with a laugh, and god, Iceman likes how it sounds.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Paris,” Maverick scratches his neck as he adds, “Actually, not always; that was Penny, not me. I never gave two fucks about it until she mentioned it.”

“Penny? Wait, Penny as in Penelope Benjamin? ” Iceman can feel the gears turning in his head as he puts two and two together. “Admiral Benjamin’s daughter? ”

“In my defense, I had no idea they were related. We were really just fucking around.”

“Oh god,” Iceman rubs his face with his hands, “Jesus Christ, Maverick, how did they even let you into the Navy?”

“I’m a damn good pilot, that’s why,” Maverick replies as smooth as ever, flashing his usual megawatt smile at Iceman. Both of them cackle in unison, Iceman patting Maverick’s shoulder in a silent ‘ we’ll have to see about that’.  

He’s sure Maverick understood it, if the cocksure smirk he sends Iceman is anything to go by.

A sharp, surprised sound leaves Maverick when he glances at his watch, and Iceman looks at him, eyebrow raised in silent questioning. 

“Gonna have lunch with Carole and Bradley and I’m late— ” Maverick says as he whips his head around, looking for his bike. When he spots it, he turns to Iceman and pats his chest. “You have fun, yeah? Let’s see who’s the better pilot once we’re back.”

“Take that for granted, Mitchell,” Iceman responds. 

Maverick turns on his heels, ready to head away when Iceman suddenly steps forward, reaching towards Maverick before he can think twice about it.

“Wait, Mav–!”

Maverick snaps his head back so quickly Iceman almost thinks he might’ve broken it.

“Yeah?”

“Do you–”

Tom hesitates, lips still parted and the question barely on the tip of his tongue. He snaps his mouth shut with a click of his teeth.

“Um. Nevermind.” eloquent as always, Tom. “Tell Carole and Bradley I said hello?”

Maverick’s gaze is curious, but if he actually thinks anything about Iceman’s stuttering, he doesn’t comment on it. He gives Iceman a wide, toothy grin and a mock salute before he practically sprints away.

Iceman’s eyes are glued to Maverick’s Kawasaki as it takes off, until it becomes a spot of color blended with the horizon.

“Took you long enough,” Iceman says to Slider when he hears him approach, eyes not tearing away from the tiny dot of red glinting in the distance.

“Didn’t wanna interrupt,” Slider replies as he angles his head, trying to find out what exactly Tom is staring at. “You two had a good time?”

“Get the car,” Tom throws the car keys at Ron, purposefully avoiding the question.

“Sir, yes sir!” Ron adds with a laugh, and they both head towards the car.

Iceman spends the rest of the car ride looking out of the window, absentmindedly humming along Slider’s mediocre song choices as he wonders where in the NATOPS said anything about how much closure would be necessary—without it being socially unacceptable—to offer your wingman to hang out during a three week leave. He falls asleep, head lolled to his side and the question from earlier still lingering at the tip of his tongue.

If there’s one thing that aviators look forward to aside from flying a jet in the air, is taking a few weeks of leave on the ground. Visiting family, going out with friends to enjoy some cheap booze, popping into the bar and leaving with a girl hanging by their arm— it’s a routine they fall easily into when they find themselves away from soaring the skies.

It hadn’t really been different for Tom Kazansky. He didn’t have his whole family living in his same country, and Europe was too far away for a visit between his short leaves. His father had taken him to the States back when he was a kid, knowing that his future as a pilot awaited him here. His sweet mother and sisters stayed in Poland—their parents’ divorce didn’t sever the bond between the Kazansky siblings, even after both adults remarried. 

He then met a young boy on his first day in the academy. Tom never quite acknowledged him, eyes too fixated on his goal of being the best out of the best, but Ronald Kerner had wormed his way into Tom’s heart. Ron was the one to give Tom his callsign “Iceman”—Tom thought it was a ridiculous name, rolled his eyes but still couldn’t hide the smile on his face. In return, Tom spent the whole following month thinking of an absurd callsign for Ron, and that was how Slider became his RIO. It had earned him a punch to his shoulder and a playful “dickhead” from Ron, but the nickname was quickly accepted.

Whenever he’s on leave, he doesn’t usually spend more than a day or two visiting his father and his family. He joins them for a day, he tells them about his days as a naval aviator, and in exchange his father tells him stories that Tom has heard a million times as a teenager. He didn’t have a hard childhood, but having to grow up subjected to his father’s high expectations had made them distant from each other. 

Despite everything, there’s some comfort in the way his father looks at him now—something almost akin to pride , a look of approval that as a child, Tom rarely managed to get from the hardened gaze in his father’s eyes. He offers Tom to stay for dinner, and his wife offers Tom to stay for the night. 

Iceman never overstays his welcome—early in the morning he always calls Slider, makes plans with the flyboys; and so, he bids goodbye to his family. 

When he leaves, he heads for his car. Bag slung over his back, eyes facing forward: he never turns around to see if his father is still looking, and it just feels, over and over again, like the day he left for Annapolis. He always wonders for a brief moment if it would’ve been different with his mother and sisters, then decides it’s not worth the sting the thoughts bring him.

It’s the third day of his three week leave, and Iceman has already run out of things to do. 

His mandatory visit to his father’s house is crossed off the list, so now he finds himself half-lost somewhere in La Jolla. He could have stayed with his father and his wife for a few days—after all, the invitation had been extended to him, but Tom had politely declined it, talking about plans he did not have with friends that were not available at the time. 

Iceman swings his duffel bag over his shoulder, his eyes raking over the coastline; pearly white sand and turquoise waters basked in the faint afterglow of sunrise, the tides washing out the orange hues, drifting towards the horizon. The fresh marine breeze he was so acquainted with from his times on the USS Enterprise suddenly felt like a foreign caress over his skin. He breathes in, a faint smile creeps up his face and he decides he doesn’t quite want to return to Miramar just yet. 

So that’s what he does. He approaches a local establishment and asks for the nearest inn, making small talk with the black-haired man behind the counter. Iceman gives him an easy smile before breaking eye contact and walking away from the place. 

Iceman remembers a familiar pair of green eyes, a pair he has stared into more than he cares to admit, and thinks about how the clerk’s eyes just weren’t as green and bright and attractive as Maverick’s are.

The night is still young when Tom is laying on his back on the bed, hands propped under his head as he stares at the ceiling of the hotel room he booked. He didn’t bother unpacking his things this time, only fishing out whatever he needs when he needs it. Iceman is an organized man, as neat and tidy as the Navy makes them, but sue him, he’s on vacation, so he allows himself a little disorder. 

Fresh sea breeze blows right through the open door of his balcony, the cream-colored curtains parting to reveal the sight of the sea, dimly illuminated by the lights installed on the wooden coastal paths. Tom hops off the bed, paddling towards the balcony as his eyes land on the moon, a little hazy from where it hides behind the mist. 

Tom leans against the railing as he looks around. There are still a few locals open, mostly restaurants and nightclubs, neon lights and groups of people always coming to life as day shifts to night. It’s the same everywhere , Tom supposes with a half-smile, and he feels oddly at peace. 

Tom doesn’t have to wake up at 0500 tomorrow. He doesn’t have plans, doesn’t have people to meet, and it’s not like Commanding Officer Viper will appear at his doorstep claiming he has responsibilities because he doesn’t . If there’s any night he can enjoy without the weight of his career over his shoulders, it’s probably tonight. He can get as wasted as he wishes (as long as he manages to make it back in one piece to his hotel room) and drink away the sight of Maverick’s green eyes that’s so thoroughly embedded in the back of his mind.

So he ponders it for half a second before he turns on his heels and rummages through his bag for something he can wear. There’s nobody to impress tonight—no need to have a girl hanging by his arm to drive suspecting eyes away, and despite it being a random club at La Jolla, Tom still doesn’t feel like he’s far enough from Miramar to go home with a stranger.

If he’s lucky, nobody at the club will make the connection when they hear the name Kazansky , if they ever manage to hear it from him. Last thing he needs is someone ratting him out to his father—who’s still hopelessly waiting for Tom to put a ring on a lady’s finger. Iceman really could make use of some discretion, so just for good measure, he fists his dog tags and hauls them over his head, gently placing them in his bag along with his other possessions. Tonight, he isn’t Iceman—tonight, he’s Tom.

He throws on the first shirt he finds and a pair of jeans that coincidentally hug his ass very nicely. It’s a bit chilly outside, so he grabs the leather jacket he packed in his bag and mentally pats himself on the back for actually owning an outfit that looks decent enough for his unexpected clubbing night. 

Staring at himself through the mirror, he realizes he almost looks like Maverick, except for the horrendous cowboy boots the shorter pilot wears underneath his jeans that add a good few inches to his height. They’re ugly as they can be, but at least Maverick isn’t on his tippy-toes every time he’s on his bike—Iceman refuses to acknowledge that he’s been thoroughly scrutinizing the other for long enough to take in bits of information about him. He’s just an overall observant person, that's all.

It’s amusing how even wearing those boots, Iceman still has a pair of inches on Maverick. It’s barely noticeable, but whenever they’re in each other’s faces, Maverick always has to tilt his head ever so slightly to glare right into Iceman’s eyes. Iceman will then look at him through half-lidded eyes, huffing and helplessly feeling hot and bothered under his collar as they stare at each other until one of them backs off. 

In all honesty, it feels like a never ending game of gay chicken—Tom is gay, Maverick is attractive, the sky is blue and grass is green. And perhaps Iceman should learn to tone it down a bit, but Maverick seems to be into whatever they have just as much as Tom is. He can’t help it, feeling the rush of adrenaline with every push and pull, almost akin to the high of flying.

A fleeting thought crosses his mind, wondering whether Maverick fucked like he flies—fast, passionate, precise yet unpredictable. He wonders how Maverick's body would feel under the grip of his hands, the sounds he would make and how his face would look, dazed and lost in pleasure.

And just as quickly as it came, it’s gone, leaving nothing but a cold shiver running down Tom’s spine. 

Iceman lets go of the breath he didn’t know he was holding and tries to shake off the image of Maverick that has, yet again, bled into his brain, only ten times worse on this occasion. The fabric of his jeans strains a bit uncomfortably against his groin and he groans in exasperation into his hands at the realization. This cannot be happening to him.

So he resorts to splashing water on his face and wills his soon-to-be-erection away, mentally berating himself as he recites all World Cup winners by reverse chronological order to keep his thoughts from drifting into the danger zone.

If he didn’t have enough a reason to get wasted before, he surely does now. He’s determined to drink so much he’ll be hungover for the remaining two and a half weeks of leave.

Iceman is standing in front of one of the many clubs that extend along the shore. It’s nothing extremely fancy or outstanding, but if the amount of people gathered at the front is anything to go by, he thinks it might be his best pick for tonight. It’s not quite late yet, barely after dusk, and it seems like the bar is in for a long night. 

The pink neon lightning that decorates the entrance seems to be calling his name as he approaches it, and Iceman almost looks forward to drinking enough to regret every decision he has ever taken in his life.

The dance floor isn't filled to the brim with partying people in varying degrees of drunkenness yet, but there are small groups sitting in booths, some of them already halfway through what Iceman assumes to be their first drink, while some of them engage in conversation as they wait for their order. 

There’s a bunch of people hanging around the bar as the bartenders make quick work of their orders, the barbacks assisting them in chopping ice or preparing the glassware. The bar isn’t crowded yet, so Iceman figures he should find a spot before more people join in—back at the ‘O’ Club, it was always Slider who got the drinks, mostly because Iceman hated shouldering past the crowd swarming around the bar; but alas, he’s on his own tonight.

It shouldn’t take him long to get something—he figures a beer or two would do for an aperitif before he dives into the heavier drinks, some shots of vodka or even tequila if he’s feeling a bit more on the masochistic side tonight.

Iceman came here with the intention of getting drunk, not with the intention of flirting with any handsome man he comes across and returning with him to his hotel room, but if fate deemed it possible, then there would be nothing Iceman would do against it.

He leans against the bar, sitting on the stool and elbow propped against the counter. He briefly scans the club—the lighting is dim, but it’s enough for Iceman to make sure there are no familiar faces among the crowd. The jukebox plays a song that Iceman has heard a few times back at the ‘O’ Club, the patrons seem to be enjoying their time, and everything from this bar just feels oddly comfortable.

The young woman beside him thanks the bartender as she grabs the two cocktails she ordered and walks towards her group. Iceman gives her a sidelong glance, his back still facing the bar, and thinks he should probably open a tab for his own drinks before everyone gathers up.

“May I take your order, Iceman ?”

Iceman’s eyes widen as he takes in the sound of a familiar voice—he barely registers the use of his callsign.

He whips his head around, shifting on the stool so he’s sitting parallel to the bar, and comes face to face with the bartender. Bright green eyes look back at him from where the bartender has his arms crossed on top of the counter, crowding into Iceman’s space when he leans forward.

“Maverick,” Iceman whispers, almost incredulously. 

“The one and only,” Maverick whispers back, a grin writing itself on his lips, “fancy seeing you here.”

Their faces are mere inches from each other, and Iceman doesn’t have the strength to stop his eyes from drifting towards Maverick’s lips, stealing a glance of his smile. 

“Fancy indeed.” He snaps his gaze back to Maverick’s eyes. “Wait, what are you doing at La Jolla?”

Maverick’s eyebrows raise slightly and he chuckles in response. He doesn’t reply, wordlessly leaning away as his hand reaches beside him, picking up a bottle of gin and pouring it into a shaker. His eyes never leave Iceman’s, and Iceman gulps under his gaze, completely entranced by Maverick’s movements.

“Benedictine and cherry-flavored brandy,” he says as he pours them into the shaker with the gin, doing it with a blinding flair that could only mean experience . 

Iceman leans forward, propping both elbows on the counter as he observes Maverick mixing the drink, his previous question left unanswered, but Iceman couldn’t even be bothered to keep thinking about it—not when Maverick looks like a damn eye candy right in front of him.

He’s wearing a dark shirt, thin white stripes running down his chest, to where the shirt is loosely tucked in his pants. His sleeves are rolled up, flaunting each of his muscles as he pours the mix into a Collins glass. 

Maverick’s collar is open, buttons undone, leaving his collarbone exposed to prying eyes. Iceman wants to trace the bare skin of his neck with his hands, caress his collarbone and dip his hands into Maverick’s shirt, undo the rest of his buttons and run his hands down his chest and his abs, feeling the taunt muscle ripple under his touch. 

“You mix it with pineapple juice and lime juice,” Maverick’s voice snaps Iceman out of his thoughts. He focuses on whatever Maverick is doing. “Stir it, then top it with sparkling water and garnish. And just like that, it’s done.”

Iceman has no idea as to why Maverick is giving him a step-by-step tutorial, but he looks at the drink, a beautiful shade of coral topped with a slice of pineapple and a cherry on the rim of the glass and decides it’s some kind of art by itself.

“Singapore Sling!” Maverick calls loudly and someone emerges from the crowd, taking the drink after payment is down. Iceman watches him give the patron an easy but professional smile before he turns to the barback, telling the assistant something Iceman can’t make out.

He won't admit it out loud— Iceman does think of Maverick as good-looking on any regular day. But tonight? Moving around the bar with practiced ease and flashing handsome grins at the patrons, Iceman decides that it's the best he's ever seen him. 

His gaze drops to where Maverick’s ass is nicely hugged by the fabric of his pants, and Iceman immediately forces his eyes away. If he pops a hard-on now, he’ll never live it down.

“So, made up your mind?” Maverick grins, leaning into him, and god , does this man not understand the concept of personal space?

“Originally came for a beer, but,” Iceman leans into Maverick —two people can play this game, he briefly thinks— and angles his head a bit, speaking softly into Maverick’s ear, “I say, surprise me, Maverick. Show me what you’ve got.”

It may be a trick of the lightning in the room, but Maverick’s cheeks seem to be slightly flushed when he pulls back. Maverick’s pupils are slightly blown, his breath a bit heavier as he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. Iceman’s gaze drifts down again as he traces the movement with his eyes, unable to tear his eyes away this time. The air feels a bit heavier now, and Iceman bites the inside of his cheek in anticipation.

“Vodka?” Maverick cocks his head as he asks. Iceman nods in response. “Anything in particular you wouldn’t like?”

“I’m not picky, Mav,” he purrs, giving Maverick a half-lidded look as the corners of his mouth curve slightly in amusement. He’s not being subtle at all now.

“Alright then,” Maverick takes a step forward, closing their distance and mirroring Iceman’s previous position. His hand reaches towards Iceman’s cheek, tilting his head as he speaks into Iceman’s ear, “make sure to keep your eyes on me, Iceman.”

“You have all my attention, Maverick.” Iceman can feel Maverick smiling against his skin at the response, a puff of hot breath ghosting over his ear—it takes him back to their moment in the locker room a few days ago, and Maverick’s words resonate in the back of his mind.

Without another word, Maverick takes a step back, reaching towards the shelf and grabs a large bottle. Kahlúa , Iceman reads. It’s coffee liquor—he has the feeling he knows where this is headed, and he likes this.

“Rocks glass, also called Old Fashioned glass,” Maverick comments as he shows Iceman a glass, deft fingers tracing the pattern on the surface as he places it on the counter. He reaches for the ice well and fills the glass with dense, big ice cubes. “Quality ice makes the drink better–”

“—so that it doesn’t melt quickly and dilute the drink?” Iceman finishes Maverick’s sentence and adds with a playful tone, “I might know a thing or two myself.”

“Educated much,” Maverick huffs, his green eyes looking into Iceman’s as his voice drops an octave and murmurs, quiet enough only for the two of them to hear it, “I like that in a man.”

“Glad to know I’m meeting the expectations then,” Iceman matches his low tone. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a brief moment, and Maverick’s eyes flick to Iceman’s lips before they return to make eye contact, as if to get the point across.

Maverick pours vodka and kahlúa into the glass before he reaches for another bottle. He tops the mixture with heavy cream and raises the glass, placing one hand at the base as he shows Iceman the unstirred cocktail.

The mix of coffee liquor and vodka pools at the base and the heavy cream sits on top, forming cloudy patterns where it sinks into the kahlúa, the image of both liquids merging together distorted by the light refracting off the glass.

“White Russian, ” Maverick says, “equal parts vodka and kahlúa, topped with heavy cream—thought it would be perfect for you. Hope you like it,” he adds, albeit a bit more sheepishly, giving Iceman a small smile. He places the glass on the counter and pushes it towards Iceman.

Iceman takes a second to admire the cocktail, giving Maverick an appreciative hum at his guess. He spins the glass in his hand

“Oh, and you’ll want to stir that before you drink it,” Maverick pipes up, handing him a bar spoon. Their fingers accidentally meet where Maverick holds the handle to pass it to him, but the way Maverick’s touch lingers on Iceman’s hand is deliberate .

Iceman stirs the drink until it’s completely mixed, and brings the glass to his lips. He observes Maverick’s eyes following the movement of the glass, then lingering on his lips when Iceman’s tongue darts out to savor the remaining taste of his drink.

It’s sweet and indulgently smooth. The delicate flavor of the coffee liquor tastes well with the vodka, and the heavy cream gives it a velvety feeling. The vodka gives it a kick, a touch of booziness despite not being overpowering—mixed with the sweet taste of the kahlúa, it’s just the perfect combination. 

“It’s good,” Iceman praises as he takes another sip, humming with satisfaction, “it’s perfect, Maverick.”

“A pleasure to be of service.” Maverick gives a slight mock reverence, but there’s a proud grin on his face at Iceman’s reaction. He rests his chin on the palm of his hand, leaning against the counter as he watches Iceman nurse his drink.

“One question,” Iceman says after he takes another sip. He jerks his chin towards the shelf where lies dozens and dozens of different types of alcohol. “You have all those memorized? I mean, like, you just know which one to use for which drink?”

Maverick glances behind him, and something flashes through his eyes when he looks back at Iceman—mischief or roguery, Iceman can’t tell; a there-and-gone emotion that has Iceman remembering it’s Maverick who he’s speaking to. 

“Oh, those. I do,” Maverick answers nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal. Then, he looks up, a smug grin plastered on his face before he leans forward. “Y’know, I’ve been told my head is fantastic. ”

Iceman almost chokes on his drink. He’s sure Maverick’s sexual innuendo was, again, deliberate. He shifts on his seat so that his jeans don’t dig into his crotch, and refuses to acknowledge that the blood rushing to his dick is due to Maverick’s implication rather than the alcohol. 

“That’s quite the bold comment to make,” Iceman tries to match Maverick’s nonchalant tone, trying his best to not let Maverick see through his calm and collected façade. 

Iceman would feel embarrassed if it wasn't for the fact that he’s incredibly turned on right now. The idea of Maverick on his knees seems so tentative, and Iceman is just on the border of doing things that are probably still illegal in some southern states.

“You think so?” Maverick replies with fake innocence. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow at Iceman, “Would you agree with it, though?”

“I can’t say I agree, haven’t gotten the chance to try it myself just yet,” Iceman replies with a sly leer and decides to be straightforward, when he trails his eyes down Maverick’s chest, “but if you think you can, you’re free to prove me wrong.”

“That’s a dangerous idea, Iceman.” Maverick warns him, voice dripping with lust.

“I thought you were dangerous, Maverick,” Iceman replies without missing a beat. He downs the rest of his White Russian and licks his lips before letting the bomb drop. “I can show you a good time.”

Take the bait, Maverick.

Maverick drags his hand up Iceman’s arm and crowds into his space for the umpteenth time this night. His breathing is somewhat shallow, and Iceman can feel Maverick’s lips grazing against his ear when he speaks.

“Men’s bathroom is down the hallway. Wait for me in the last stall, I’ll be there in five minutes,” Maverick leaves a featherlight kiss on his cheek as he pulls ever so slightly away. Green eyes pierce into Iceman’s as Maverick adds, barely an audible whisper, “I’ll make it good, Iceman.”

Hook, line and sinker.

Iceman adjusts his pants before he moves up, sliding his credit card to Maverick before the latter stops him from doing so. It’s on the house , Maverick tells him as he returns him the card. 

“I’ll be waiting for you then, Maverick.”

And so, he’s gone. It’s only when he closes the stall door behind him that his mind starts to race, going through every word of his previous conversation with Maverick. His blatant flirting with Maverick, absolutely shameless and lust-ridden. He can’t blame it on the alcohol this time—he craves Maverick, in more than one way, and Iceman knows the feeling too well to deny it anymore.

Iceman presses the palm of his hand flat against the door, slowly balling his fist as he bangs his forehead against the surface as quietly as he can. The cool surface under his forehead and hands are a stark contrast to how he feels, too hot under the collar of his shirt. His breaths make him feel like he’s suffocating, his mouth is dry and his heart beats wildly in anticipation; and if that wasn’t enough, he can perfectly see the tent in his own pants when he opens his eyes. It's an embarrassing sight, so he closes them.

“Goddamnit,” Iceman grits out, peeling his forehead away from the door and soothes the skin there with the back of his hand. “The fuck was I thinking this time?”

He had taken this too far, but his next words don’t get to leave his mouth. The bathroom door creaks open, familiar footsteps approaching where Iceman is hiding and the man honest to god considers making a run for it before it’s too late—but who is he kidding? It’s already too late to turn around.

“Ice–”

Maverick barely manages to knock on the door when Iceman swings it open, yanking him inside as the other man yelps, a bit caught by surprise. In a split second, Iceman has him pressed against the door, his heart hammering against his ribs at the feeling of Maverick’s body pressed against his own, a burning feeling where his hands run down the sides of Maverick’s torso, eliciting a small gasp from Maverick.

Maverick snakes his arms around Iceman’s neck and pulls him in, faces inches from each other as they breathe the same air, Maverick’s hands reaching for the back of Iceman’s head.

For an instant they stay like this, faces close and staring into each other—the last sliver of doubt in Iceman’s mind dissipates, and for the first time in his life, Thomas “Iceman” Kazansky tosses the navy rulebook over his shoulder. All regulations be damned.

He dips in to kiss Maverick, lips meeting in a feverish contact. Iceman angles his head to deepen the kiss, feeling Maverick’s lips move against his own. He fumbles with the door lock as Maverick pulls him closer still, caging himself against the door with Iceman’s form. 

Iceman’s hands land on Maverick’s waist, slowly roaming up, feeling the taunt muscle of his back move under his touch. Maverick groans into the kiss at the contact, the sound going straight to Iceman’s dick where it strains against his jeans. He feels Maverick’s chest fall and rise with every breath he tries to take as they kiss, the lack of oxygen almost making Iceman feel dizzy, but he can’t pry his lips away from Maverick’s own.

He swipes his tongue over Maverick’s bottom lip, and his lips part pliantly as Iceman pushes forward, tasting the low moan that leaves Maverick when he seizes the moment to grind against him. He curses, the friction deliciously good, his hands clawing into the fabric of Maverick’s shirt as the other man’s hands tangle themselves in Iceman’s hair. 

He rakes his hands down Maverick’s back as he keeps kissing him, unable to stop touching and feeling him, the contact making him crave more and more. His hands settle over Maverick’s hips and he digs his fingers there, pulling Maverick down on his groin as he rolls his hips up, feeling Maverick’s erection press against his own.

Maverick throws his head back, breaking the kiss with a choked gasp, body arching into Iceman’s like a plea for more. He does it again, rolling his hips and pressing against Maverick, chasing the burning desire in his core that refuses to be tamped down. Maverick’s lips are parted and shiny with spit, and Iceman can’t help but dive into him again, drinking every sound he makes when they grind into each other in an open-mouthed and filthy kiss. He sucks on Maverick’s lower lip as the other man pants into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut as he tugs on Iceman’s hair with a whine. 

The long line of Maverick’s neck is completely bared out, and Iceman trails his lips down the exposed flesh, kissing and nipping the skin, pressing his mouth and sucking, only light enough as to not leave marks just yet. 

“Oh god, Ice— yeah, just like that,” Maverick keens as he arches into him, urging Iceman closer to his neck as he bucks his hips, searching for any friction to quell the ache in his pants. Iceman brings one of his hands to Maverick’s nape, fingers carding through the short hairs there, holding him down as he keeps mouthing Maverick’s neck, lavishing him with attention. 

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you—” Iceman’s kisses drift up to the spot behind Maverick’s ear, and he feels his dick twitch when the other man pliantly angles his head to give Iceman better access. He licks the shell of his ear, taking his earlobe between his teeth with a soft nip. “This shirt of yours, leaving nothing to imagination, you knew I’d be staring, yeah? Is this what you wanted, my attention?”

Iceman knows he’s babbling nonsense, but he can’t stop himself from running his mouth. His other hand slides down to Maverick’s ass, kneading the flesh as he keeps moving against him.

“I could— fuck , feel your eyes on me, all the time,” Maverick replies between pants, struggling to form complete sentences but still feeling the need to poke back at Iceman, “you’re not as subtle as you think you are, Iceman.”

Iceman snaps his hips up in response, pressing hard against Maverick’s straining erection. Maverick is shoved back onto the door, a sharp cry of pleasure leaving his lips as his head drops forward into the crook of Iceman’s neck, breathing harshly as he tries to fuck himself down on Iceman’s thigh, craving any contact he can get.

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle anyway,” Iceman replies breathily, “you’ve been driving me up the wall ever since I laid my eyes on you tonight, Maverick . You looked so pretty showing off your skills like that, yet all I could think about was having you in my bed.”

“Oh fuck —kiss me, Ice,” Maverick gasps, grabbing Iceman’s face between his hands and kissing him hard. 

He groans into the kiss as their movements turn frenzied, chasing the sweet friction like it’s the last time they’ll have the chance to. Iceman is glad that he’s not a teenager anymore, coming in his pants at the slightest grind against another body, so he’s determined to make this last as long as he can, enjoy the feeling of Maverick’s body against his own, take in the sounds he makes and hope the taste of him burns onto his tongue.

“I’d spoil you with attention, kissing you while I fuck you with my fingers,” Iceman purrs into Maverick’s mouth between kisses, “you wouldn’t even have to work for it, I’d give it all to you as long as you asked. Watch you take me so well while I call you sweet things, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Maverick shuts his eyes tightly, biting his lip in a futile attempt to muffle the moan that leaves him, his head lolling back, baring his neck as he tries to steady his breathing. Iceman feels Maverick’s dick twitch where they’re pressed flush against each other, the realization of how Maverick preens under his praise making something deep within him snap and come to life.

Maverick invited Iceman into the bathroom to blow him, that’s a fact. It’s also a fact that Maverick had clearly been giving him signs all night, comments with more than a sprinkle of a sexual innuendo and lascivious looks through his half-lidded eyes, but none of those really meant that Maverick had more than a quick blowjob in mind.

It didn’t give Iceman the right to invite Maverick to his hotel room, but then again, Maverick never told him to not do so—thus, Iceman leans in and takes a chance.

He drags his lips away from Maverick’s, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, savoring the soft moan that Maverick lets out.

“Maverick, let me take you home,” Iceman whispers into his ear, almost like a plea, too gone in the heat of the moment to even process his own words. “Let me make it good for you, ruin you like you deserve, I’ll make it worth your time, I promise. I want this— want you , so bad.”

“ Jesus —Jesus Christ,” Maverick whines softly and tugs at Iceman’s hair, urging Iceman to look at him. Their lips meet in a chaste kiss, a featherweight touch before Maverick whispers. “Yeah—god, yes, take me home, Iceman.”

Same modus operandi as earlier—Iceman leaves first and Maverick trails behind after a few minutes of waiting. The walk back to the hotel room felt excruciatingly slow and uncomfortable (Iceman’s cock was still at half-mast where it was tucked within his briefs, and the cool, wet patch of precome was rubbing against his skin with every step he took). Thankfully, the jacket he folded over his arm covered his crotch perfectly—his arms were covered with goosebumps, but at least he saved himself the embarrassment of sporting a boner in public.

Iceman has a few minutes to briefly clean the room before Maverick arrives, placing his shoes at the side of the entrance, arranging and rearranging the pillows on the bed and placing his personal belongings aside. He pulls one of the desk drawers open and almost falls to his knees in gratitude for whatever god was looking after him, because the roll of condoms and the unopened bottle of lube seem more like a miracle rather than just another of the many products the hotel provided clients with. 

His wallet will suffer the consequences if they’re as half as overpriced as the alcohol sitting in the hotel minibar, but he can’t bring himself to care when he grabs the condoms and lube and chucks them onto the bed. 

Three knocks sound sharply against the door of his room and Iceman all but sprints to open it. As soon as they meet face to face, Maverick slides into the room and closes their distance. Their lips meet in a soft kiss before Maverick spins them and backs Iceman on the door, shutting it close with a click of the automatic lock.

Most of the time Iceman prefers being in control, but the way Maverick is pressing him to the door and kissing him again makes all his blood rush south. The kiss is slow and languid, without the hint of urgency it had before, and Iceman cups Maverick’s face between his hands as he savors the taste of him. 

Maverick pulls away slightly, and Iceman instinctively chases the feeling of his lips. 

“‘M not going anywhere,” Maverick coos, running his hands down Iceman’s torso, “but I do believe I have a promise to fulfill.”

“You don’t have to, Mav–” Iceman murmurs breathily. Maverick only sinks to his knees in response. “–woah.” 

Maverick chuckles, then looks up at Iceman from where he’s kneeling between his legs. He kisses Iceman’s navel through the fabric of his shirt, trailing down to the front of his pants, pressing his face where Iceman’s erection strains against his jeans. His hands settle over the planes of Iceman’s thighs, roaming over the muscled surface as he noses the outline of Iceman’s cock, a content sigh leaving his lips.

Iceman gulps at the sight beneath him, heart beating wildly in his chest. He places his hands on Maverick’s head, gently carding his fingers through his hair but not applying any pressure, not pushing Maverick further. 

Maverick closes his eyes and leans into Iceman’s touch, his lips parting as he mouths at Iceman’s erection through the fabric of his pants. His hands come to unfast them, pulling the garment down slightly to reveal Iceman’s briefs. Maverick runs his tongue up the outline of Iceman’s cock, wetting the fabric of his briefs with his spit before he takes the hem of the fabric between his teeth, slowly pulling it down as Iceman’s cock springs out.

“God, I’ve been dreaming about this,” Maverick whispers as he nuzzles the base, almost delirious. Iceman catches Maverick digging the heel of his hand on the tent in his own pants and suppressing a groan, and feels himself harden even more. 

Maverick licks a stripe up Iceman’s cock, running his tongue over one of the veins before he takes the head between his lips and sucks slightly. He flicks his tongue over the slit and Iceman swears under his breath, shuddering at the warmth of Maverick’s mouth when he takes him in. Iceman’s eyes flutter close when he feels himself hitting the back of Maverick’s mouth, a deep moan leaving his lips as Maverick’s tongue presses on the underside of his dick, and Iceman feels Maverick freeze slightly when he inadvertently tightens his grip on his hair.

“Shit, sorry–” Iceman loosens his grip and apologetically massages Maverick’s scalp. “That mouth of yours, Mitchell.”

Maverick pulls away ever so slightly, barely enough to talk as Iceman’s cockhead rests hovering over his lips. The image was nothing short of a porno, and Iceman willed himself to commit it to memory—if this was the only time he’d be able to have Maverick, then he’d make sure to never jerk off to anything but the memory of Pete Mitchell with his lips on his cock.

“Glad to know you’re enjoying it,” Maverick murmurs, bringing one of his hands to slowly stroke Iceman’s dick as he gives kitten licks around the cockhead, then collecting the mixture of precome and his spit with his hand, easing the glide. He wraps his lips around the head and takes Iceman in again, pushing it further into his mouth as he uses his hand to stroke where his mouth can’t reach.

Iceman feels the way Maverick works his throat open, then pulling back and bobbing his head, swirling his tongue around the tip before he swallows Iceman’s dick again. It makes his head spin, the way Maverick does it so naturally; sucking him in, pressing his tongue against the underside of his cock, occasionally pulling back for a short breather, but even then he laps at the precome leaking from the tip, making a show like he’s being paid for it. 

Iceman fights against the thought of just closing his eyes and letting himself get lost in the feeling of Maverick, because the way the other man looks is the manifestation of sin itself. 

“ Oh —” Iceman throws his head back as his whole body tenses when Maverick swallows hard around his cock. His hand grips Maverick’s hair again, but this time Maverick moans at the sensation, the vibrations going back to Iceman’s dick as his eyes roll back. 

Iceman wills his hips still, but he can’t help but buck into Maverick’s mouth, chasing the feeling of his warmth on his cock. Maverick seems to catch onto his struggle, because he places one of his hands on Iceman’s hip, pins him to the door and god, he goes down on Iceman’s dick until his nose is pressed flush against his navel. Iceman swears he sees stars for a second.

“Jesus Christ , Maverick,” Iceman lets out a choked noise as he runs his fingers through Maverick’s hair. They stay like that for a second, Maverick focusing on breathing through his nose, jaw slack as he looks up at Iceman. His green eyes are a bit glassy from exertion, his cheeks flushed and Iceman can’t help but cup his face with his hands.

“God, look at you, you look so perfect—” Maverick closes his eyes at the praise, and the soft whine that leaves him makes Iceman shudder. He pulls off, pressing his tongue to one of the veins on Iceman’s dick as he moves from the shaft to the tip, until only the cockhead remains between his lips.

The next time Maverick goes down on him, Iceman’s whole world blurs. 

“So good, Maverick, yeah—” He can’t stop the words leaving his lips, but it’s not like Maverick wants him to be quiet. “You’re doing so well, fuck, I don’t think I’m going to last long—”

Iceman feels the familiar tightening in his gut, telltale signs he recognizes too well—he tries gently pushing Maverick off his dick, to stave off his orgasm, not wanting it to be over just yet. Iceman opens his mouth to at least warn Maverick, but it’s useless. Nothing more than garbled sounds leave him, as well as a small cry he most definitely will deny if he’s asked about.

Maverick only hums appreciatively and doubles down on his efforts, bobbing his head with enthusiasm and swirling his tongue, driving Iceman over the edge with frightening precision. It’s like Maverick has a tone lock on him, the way he looks at Iceman with his impossibly green eyes and sucks on his cock, sending shivers down Iceman’s spine at the sheer feeling of Maverick’s gaze on him.

“You think you’d be able to go for another round after this, Kazansky?” 

Maverick’s hand replaces his mouth when he pulls off to address Iceman. His voice is slightly hoarse, his cheeks flushed and his lips shiny with spit, and it takes Iceman’s brain a whole second to come online at the question.

“You’ll have to give me a few minutes, but yeah, I can,” Iceman responds between grunts as Maverick’s hand moves quicker, and one particular twist of his wrist has Iceman throwing his head back with a breathless, punched-out swear. 

“Good,” Maverick accentuates his reply by blowing on Iceman’s tip, the soft puff of breath a stark contrast to his rough movements. “Yeah, Ice, that’s it. Give it to me, gorgeous, come on–”

Iceman’s hips stutter, his moans turning strangled. His hands grab Maverick’s hair for purchase as he fucks back into Maverick’s fist, the latter licking around his cockhead, occasional pants leaving his lips when Iceman’s tugs harder than intended. Iceman comes with a groan, his head tipping back as his vision momentarily blacks out. 

His breathing is erratic, and he briefly registers Maverick swallowing around his cock. His head spins with the thought that Maverick swallowed his come, and he’s sure that if it weren't for the door behind him, he’d lose balance and drop dead on top of Maverick right now. 

Iceman glances at Maverick through the apples of his cheeks, taking in the sight of his disheveled hair. He runs his hands soothingly where he previously had tugged at, and Maverick leans into his touch, his eyelashes fluttering as he raises his eyes to look back into Iceman’s. Without breaking eye contact, Maverick places a gentle kiss to the head of Iceman’s softening cock before tucking him back into his briefs.

“Well–”

“You didn’t—sorry,” Iceman starts and apologizes for accidentally interrupting Maverick, who rises from his kneeling stance, but doesn’t keep speaking. “You didn’t…y’know,” Iceman continues, albeit somewhat more restrained, vaguely gesturing at Maverick’s bulge as he feels heat creeping up his face.

“Hm?” Maverick hums as he runs his hand over Iceman’s torso, playfully slipping under his shirt and grazing his knuckles over his abs. It sends a shiver down Iceman’s spine, and Maverick chuckles at the reaction. “Oh, you mean this? ”

Maverick latches to his side. He’s a hot line of muscle where he presses against Iceman’s body, and he can clearly feel the outline of Maverick’s still-hard dick digging into his thigh. As if to drive the point home, Maverick slowly grinds against him for good measure, his lips finding Iceman’s throat and leaving open-mouthed kisses there.

“Let me help you,” Iceman murmurs. For all the confidence he had earlier at the bar, Iceman now feels like the whole world just shifted on its axis, leaving him disoriented as he comes down from his high. Yet, the way his hand moves to cup Maverick’s ass through the fabric of his jeans is nothing short of a natural instinct.

“Oh, you will,” Maverick purrs against his ear, his hips pushing back to meet Iceman’s hand. “I want you to fuck me—fuck me good . Spread me open on those pretty fingers of yours and make me take your cock. You can do that, right, Ice? Make it good for me?”

Maverick almost moans the words into his ear, and that’s all it takes for Iceman to regain control over the situation. The hand not kneading Maverick’s ass comes up to his neck, pulling him in for a messy kiss. Iceman can feel the lingering taste of his come in Maverick’s mouth, and it really shouldn’t feel as hot as it does. 

There’s a sharp sting where Iceman feels Maverick’s teeth sinking into his bottom lip, and he lets out a breathy laugh before kissing Maverick harder, giving as good as he takes. 

“Shirt,” Maverick pants when they break the kiss, Iceman’s shirt crumpled where Maverick has fisted it, hurrying Iceman to take it off. “Lose the shirt, now.”

“Demanding little shit,” Iceman snarks, but pulls back and tugs his shirt off regardless. In a second, Maverick’s hands are on him, groping him and feeling the taut muscle of Iceman’s chest.

“God, you don’t know what these do to me,” Maverick half-whispers as he leans down to press his lips to Iceman’s left pec, then runs his tongue up his sternum, his hands never leaving Iceman’s body. “I can’t tear my eyes off them whenever we’re in the showers.”

“You’re a fucking pervert, Mav.”

“You love it anyway,” Maverick replies without missing a beat.

And he does, really. Iceman is aware of Maverick’s stares in the shower rooms, when they’re all glistening with sweat after their hops, with only their towels wrapped around their hips. There’s a reason as to why Iceman puffs up his chest when he talks to Maverick, and part of him wishes that Maverick also had a reason to arch his back and flash his skin at him as his towel rode up his thigh.

Iceman presses his lips to Maverick’s with force one last time before pulling away completely, taking Mav’s wrist in his hand and leading him towards the bed. Maverick stifles a laugh when he sees the hotel condoms and lube on the bed, but shoves Iceman on it regardless. Iceman makes a noise of surprise when the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed, his fall imminent. He manages to put his elbows behind him, supporting his weight as he half-props himself up. 

In an instant, Maverick is climbing on his lap, toeing off his shoes and pulling his shirt off and throwing it somewhere, uncaring of where it lands. Iceman rakes his eyes up and down the exposed skin of Maverick’s body, the toned muscles of his abs and chest despite his lean frame. He bites his lip at the sight, and Mav’s hands are on him again, touching everywhere they can reach. His skin feels like it’s burning under Maverick’s palms, the touch grounding him and making him feel impossibly alive .

Iceman moans as he feels the pressure of Mav’s ass when the latter presses his hips down, Iceman’s dick already filling up where he’s tucked in his briefs. Maverick leans down to kiss him and Iceman meets him in the middle, hands reaching for his waist now that he’s sitting upright. Without Maverick’s shirt in the way, Iceman runs his hands up Maverick’s back, fingers splayed across his shoulder blades, holding him close as he deepens the kiss.

He can’t get enough, truly—something about the plush of Maverick’s lips against his own, his short gasps for air when they break apart or when they pant in each other’s mouths, eyes dazed and lost in the moment— there’s something of it that makes Iceman unable to force himself away. 

Maverick breathes out sharply when Iceman digs the heel of his palm on his crotch, an almost desperate whine leaving his lips that Iceman greedily drinks in. He moves his hand to cup Maverick’s erection through his pants, seeking to provoke more of those sounds from the other man, and the moan he receives is nothing short of gratifying.

Without much trouble, Iceman maneuvers Maverick onto the bed so that he’s lying on his back while Iceman kneels between his spreaded legs, the back of Maverick’s thighs snuggling against his lap. Iceman leans down, grazing his teeth against the hollow of Maverick’s throat as his hands roam south, quickly undoing the fly of his pants.

Iceman taps the side of Mav’s hip, and the latter obediently raises them just enough for Iceman to pull his pants and briefs down in one go. Maverick hisses when he feels the cool air against his dick, just to moan again when he feels the warmth for Ice’s hand on him. Iceman watches with rapt attention as the head of Maverick’s cock appears and disappears through his fist, the surface of it glistening with precome, easing his movements.

Maverick gasps loudly and gives a full body jerk when Iceman presses his thumb against the sensitive spot under Mav’s cockhead. It quickly turns into a moan, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. His chest heaves, the air in the room suddenly thick and heavy around him, but the only thing he can think about is how much he wants .

“You keep that up, and I’ll be coming before you even get to put your dick in me,” Mav says as he pants heavily under Ice’s ministrations, and Iceman just craves to do it all over again just to have Mav shuddering beneath him.

“Pretty sure I can get you to come again,” Iceman retorts with a hint of challenge in his voice, but his hand slows down regardless of it. He watches how Maverick’s eyes blink open, the black of his eyelashes a perfect contrast to the blush on his cheeks. 

“I’m sure you can—” Maverick’s sentence fades off to a low moan when Ice runs his thumb through the slit of his dick, “Another time, though.”

Iceman makes an inquisitive sound, his heart beating a bit quicker at the mention of a next time , but doesn’t stop his hand from moving. Maverick’s eyes glint like he’s about to make a smartass remark as he licks his lips.

“Wanna come on your cock,” Maverick leers at Iceman, before giving him an innocent look. “Please ?”

“Christ.” Iceman breathes, his mouth running dry at Mav’s words. “Yeah. Yeah , let me—”

Ice reaches beside Mav’s head to grab a pillow, his other hand patting Mav’s hip again, signaling him to let up before he shoves the pillow beneath him. Without missing a beat, he pulls back just enough to shove his own pants and briefs off, throwing them to the side so they’re out of his way. 

He wastes no time uncapping the lube bottle and squeezing a generous amount on his fingers, but he lets the lube warm up between his digits before he thinks of pressing them to Maverick’s hole. His other hand traces idle patterns on the skin of Mav’s waist, slowly moving down to knead the flesh of his ass.

“Didn’t peg you for an ass person,” Maverick questions him with a raised eyebrow, wriggling his hips a bit as he smirks.

“With this ass of yours? Anyone would be an ass person,” Iceman replies without batting an eye. Deeming the lube on his fingers warm enough, he slides his knuckle down the crack of Mav’s ass, barely grazing over his balls. He presses on Mav’s perineum, just enough to test the waters before his fingers find Mav’s hole. 

Iceman circles his fingers around his entrance, the lube spreading and easing his movements. He teases Maverick, listening to the hitch in his breath when he presses harder against his hole; it’s too blunt to actually penetrate him, just a promise of what's to come.

The hand kneading Mav’s ass slides up his thigh, settling in the crook of his knee before Iceman pushes Maverick’s leg up. In this position, he has a good view of the other man, how his cock rests heavy and leaking against his stomach, and the way his hole reacts to Ice’s touch. 

Maverick’s face goes slack at the feeling of Ice’s middle finger slowly pressing in, his lips parted as he lets out a soft sigh. Iceman flexes his finger a bit, allowing Mav some time to adjust before he keeps pushing in, burying his digit to the last knuckle. There’s not a second in which Ice keeps his eyes off Mav’s face, taking in every bit of his expressions as he works his finger inside to prep Maverick.

“Another one,” Mav says, and Ice complies, pressing his index on the rim before pushing it in along with his middle finger. Maverick groans at the intrusion, and Ice is quick to lean down and kiss him, capturing the sound with his mouth. Mav kisses him back and murmurs into his mouth, the sound slightly muffled but still audible. “Feels good, Ice.”

“Can’t wait to fuck you,” Ice confesses with a whisper as he scissors his fingers, further stretching Mav’s hole, “bet you feel just as good.”

“Then get on it, Kazansky,” Maverick pants before he circles his arms around Ice’s neck, fingers splayed over his shoulder blades, pulling him impossibly closer before huffing. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a hookup with this much kissing.”

“You complaining?” Their make-out is also sloppy, messy and uncoordinated as it can be, all tongue and spit and Iceman decides it’s the best he’s ever had from anyone.

“Wouldn’t dream of doing so,” Maverick grins against his mouth, “It’s hot. I knew you were a good kisser,” he adds, and Iceman’s previous half hard dick is now back to full hardness at his words, throbbing with want.

The third finger slips in easily, and when Maverick opens his mouth to say something, Iceman crooks his fingers inside of him with a wicked grin. Maverick throws his head back with a loud moan, his back arching off the bed as he digs his nails on Ice’s shoulders. 

The way his hand is placed makes his wrist ache, but Iceman couldn’t give less of a shit about it. He presses on the spot again, and Maverick screws his eyes shut with a swear turned whine—an embarrassing sound he will later deny making, and Iceman will surely tease him for. Mav’s chest heaves, breathing harshly through his nose as he bites his lip to will himself silent while Iceman massages his prostate, sending waves of pleasure rolling through his body.

Maverick’s head lols to the side, lips parted as he moans into the pillow. Ice’s deft fingers are relentless inside him, patiently spreading him open and treating him with care even though he’s no inexperienced man. Maverick can feel the shape of Iceman’s dick pressed against the back of his thigh and the wet patch where he’s already leaking.

“God. God, that’s enough, Ice, I’m ready, goddamnit,” Maverick says between pants, clumsily pawing at Iceman’s shoulder, “just fuck me already–!”

“Impatient, about time,” Iceman lets out a breathy laugh as he pulls away, removing his fingers from Maverick and rolling the condom over his own cock. He squeezes some more lube onto his hand and slicks up his cock, gulping at the sight before him—Maverick laid out on the bed, his bed (he paid for the room, so it’s technically his, sue him), looking all pretty with his flushed face and kiss-swollen lips—Iceman just wants to ravish him.

“Christ, hurry up ,” Mav grits, craning his neck to look up at Ice, who’s just gazing at him through half-lidded eyes where he’s kneeling upright, one hand positioning Mav’s leg as his other lazily strokes his dick. Mav’s head drops back onto the pillow as he opens his mouth to complain again, but his words die in his throat when he feels the blunt head of Ice’s cock pressing against his hole. 

They moan in unison when Ice starts pushing in, Maverick tensing at the intrusion before relaxing against the sheets. Iceman goes in slow, giving Mav some time to adjust to his dick, but Maverick can feel the way Ice digs his nails into the flesh of his thigh as he holds himself back from thrusting into him. He goes inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt, and they’re both panting by the time Ice’s hips are pressed flush against Mav’s ass. Iceman sucks his lower lip into his mouth to stifle a groan when Mav shifts a bit, lifting the leg Ice isn’t holding to rest it on Ice’s shoulder. 

“You can move now,” Mav gasps out, still breathing heavily as he nudges him in the back with the heel of his feet, beckoning Ice closer to him.

“Yeah? It’s what you want?” Ice asks as he plants his palm on the empty space on the bed beside Mav’s torso, leaning down to press a light kiss to Mav’s mouth, merely a graze of lips before he speaks. “I’m gonna move now.”

He slowly pulls out until only the cockhead remains inside, then bottoms out in one swift motion. Mav’s eyes slip closed as his head tips back into the pillow, his lips parted in a choked-off moan when Iceman repeats the same movement, the lube easing his way in.

It only takes Ice a few more thrusts to find Maverick’s prostate. Mav’s back arches off the bed at the feeling, shocks of pleasure running through his body as his moans stutter, gasps turned into moans, shameless and sinful sounds that go straight to Ice’s cock.

“So pretty,” Iceman moans into Mav’s mouth, “such a pity you’re wasting away in the Navy, flying planes and shit while people all around the world would pay to see this .”

Ice rolls his hips in a dirty grind against Mav’s ass, pushing deeper into Mav as his cockhead nudges his prostate. Mav’s hands fist the sheets beneath him, half-delirious between the feeling of Ice’s dick inside him and the low rumble of Ice’s voice as he whispers utter filth to him. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Let people see how well you take my cock, like you were made for it—” Ice’s just brainlessly rambling at this point, the words coming out of his lips like it’s second nature to him. Ice wants to tell him, wants him to hear it, hear all the things about how well Ice thinks Mav takes him and because Mav looks so beautiful stretched around his dick that he deserves to know it. “Knew you’d be so good at this from the first time I laid my eyes on you. God, you’re so fucking pretty, Mav.”

Maverick only moans in response, garbled responses being something torn between Ice’s name and pleas he cries out. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for—he feels like he’s being fucked stupid; then again, judged by how he can’t even string together a proper sentence, he probably is. He blames it on the long drags of Ice’s cock inside him, drawing in and out, filling him in a way that has all thoughts flying out of his head at Mach 2.

Iceman is quick to set a punishing pace, ramming his cock all the way into his prostate with frightening accuracy, Mav’s sounds turning desperate. Ice’s hand tightens around Mav’s thigh where he’s sure he’ll leave a mark come tomorrow—deep inside he wishes it did, just so that he can trace the shape of it tomorrow morning and have unmistakable proof of everything that’s happening right now. 

Maverick gets pushed up the bed a bit more with every one of Ice’s thrusts, his whole body moving in tandem with Ice’s movements. He presses his hand flat on the headboard to avoid bumping his head on it as his other scrambles for purchase, moving from where it was twisted in the sheets to grab onto Iceman’s bicep. 

Familiar heat pools low in his belly, the sheer intensity of the moment driving him closer and closer to the edge. He pulls Ice into another kiss, which is really more of an uncoordinated drag of tongues than a proper kiss, both moaning into each other’s mouths, savoring each aborted sound they make.

“Im— oh , I'm close, I'm so close, Ice—” Maverick babbles, trying his very best to warn Ice. “Just– just a bit more, oh god. ”

“Touch yourself, c’mon, wanna see you.” Iceman must know that Mav’s close, and judging by the way his thrusts become erratic, he must be too. Maverick does as he’s told, taking his neglected cock in his hand without a second thought, eyes rolling back at the delicious contact and almost surprised he hasn’t come in the spot—had it been Ice’s hand on him, everything would’ve ended embarrassingly fast. 

He tries to jerk his dick to the rhythm of Ice’s thrusts, squeezing the head with just enough vigor to be slightly on the edge of painful whenever Ice nails his prostate dead-on. His whole body tenses, his eyes slipping shut as he comes with a high-pitched whine, his orgasm hitting him like a punch to the gut, forcing the air out of his lungs for a second as he spills all across his abs. His chest heaves, panting as he gives his cock a few weak tugs to completely wring out his orgasm.

Sated, Maverick goes limp under Ice, but still swings his arm over Ice’s neck to haul him closer as he fucks into him, chasing his own high. Giving in to the sudden movement, Iceman’s head heavily drops beside Mav’s, forehead pressed on the pillow as he unknowingly moans straight into Maverick’s ear—and damn if those aren't the hottest sounds Mav has ever heard. Mav feels his dick give a last valiant twitch at the sound of Ice’s rich voice reverberating right through his skull, grunting with the effort of each thrust that drew him closer to the edge.

Completely bottoming out in one swift thrust, he spills into the condom with a low and dragged-out moan. Maverick feels Ice twitch inside him as he comes, and for a mere second he wishes they could've skipped the condom part, just to feel Ice coming inside of him. It always looks so hot in those stupid porn tapes he has at home.

Once Ice’s cock starts softening, he pulls it out of Mav, hissing at the slight pressure of Mav’s hole around him. For a while, neither of them move, just Maverick lying on his back as Ice goes half-limp on top of him, his body giving out after his orgasm. He lays his head beside Mav’s on the pillow, but his forearms are still slightly propped so that he won't completely crush Mav. The silence couldn't have been more than a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity, paired along with the thin sheen of sweat covering their bodies, the come on Mav’s abs that Mav was sure was sticking to Ice’s abs as well, and the drying lube on his hole that would become uncomfortable soon enough. Yet, he feels content being where he is, pressed into the bed by Iceman’s comforting weight. 

Iceman tilts his head and leans in for a kiss—Maverick complies, because of course he will. The angle is a tad bit odd, their noses bumping into each other before Maverick decides to shift a bit, now properly facing Iceman to kiss him. The way they do it is soft and tender, lips pressing against each other just for the sake of feeling that sliver of warmth, rather than lust.

“Stay put,” Iceman orders, but his voice is gentle. Maverick huffs a short laugh, but does as he's told. “I'm gonna get a towel to clean us up.”

Maverick can feel the arising ache in his legs. He stretches them out at the same time he pulls his arms above him, arching his back before dropping limp on the bed again. He distantly hears the sound of water running in the sink before he's inevitably reminded of where exactly he is.

Iceman’s hotel room. Iceman's hotel room. And all of a sudden he's remembering his dumb game of gay chicken with Ice back at the bar, which led to an awfully sexy make-out session in the bathroom stall which then led to this . This—he thinks as he covers his eyes with his arm—was a strange turn of events that Maverick could've never predicted. 

Mav removes the arm from his face when he hears Ice reemerge from the bathroom, carrying a damp towel between his hands. When it touches Mav’s skin, he realizes it's actually warm. It's pleasant against his body where Iceman is carefully wiping the come off Mav’s abs  —Mav noticed how Ice’s abs were already clean of any stains, and wishes he had gotten the chance to clean them himself— and the drying lube off his hole. He folds the used towel in half and drops it on the ground—he'd pick it up later in the morning along with all his clothes. 

Ice presses a light kiss to the inside of Maverick’s thigh before looking up to Mav, a dopey smile that reaches his eyes etched on his face. Maverick gulps, his heart swelling in his chest as he stretches his arm towards Ice, gently guiding Ice back on top of him.

Ice goes along easily, hovering over Maverick before he lowers himself on his side, his head pillowed on his bent arm and his elbow mere inches away from Mav’s face, feeling the rhythmic gush of hot breath grazing his skin. 

“Hey there, handsome,” Maverick whispers, a playful lilt coloring his tone as he winks at Ice.

Iceman lazily runs his fingers across the back of Maverick’s hand, where it's placed between both their bodies. Absent-mindedly, Mav raises his hand just enough for Ice to entwine their fingers together.

“Hey there yourself,” Ice lets out a breathy laugh, his previous smile turning into a smirk, matching Mav’s playful vibe. “All by yourself tonight?”

“I'd say I'm in good company tonight,” Maverick murmurs, eyes glued to the movement of Ice’s fingers caressing his knuckles, then feeling his thumb tracing circles on Mav’s palm.

“Good alcohol and excellent sex—what else can a guy ask for?”

“Dunno, I feel like you'll have to figure out that one by yourself, big guy,” Maverick replies, biting back a smile at the words of excellent sex from Iceman. 

Without untangling their fingers, Ice brings Mav’s hand to his lips—Maverick's eyes follow his movements all the time, per usual—while closing his eyes and pressing a kiss to Mav’s knuckles.

“Stay the night?” Iceman murmurs, eyes staring right into Mav’s soul. 

At those words, Maverick, slightly thrown off by the question, pushes himself up on his elbow, half-hovering near Ice while his other hand is still tangled in his. Maverick had fully expected Iceman to expect Mav to leave after the whole thing, maybe chalking it up to the alcohol or just mutual agreement to not talk about it. One time thing and never again, who knows.

Yet, Iceman doesn't bug at Mav's reaction, as if he knew that Mav wouldn't actually leave despite the fact that he pretty much looked about to do so. 

“You gonna buy me coffee tomorrow, or what?” Mav blurts out, surely intending to come across as cocky and teasing, but Iceman senses the slight hesitation in his voice. 

“Mhm,” Iceman hums in agreement, as calm as ever. He presses another kiss to Mav's knuckles. “Though I wanted to suck you off first before getting you breakfast. But well, anything works for me. Your call, Mav.”

“I think,” Maverick starts, words hanging in the air for a second, “I think it could be arranged. The blowjob, then the breakfast, of course.”

“We’re going a bit backwards, but it's perfectly fine by me,” Iceman smiles as he speaks. He untangles his fingers in favor of pulling Mav down with a hand on his shoulder, their lips meeting in yet another kiss, but infinitely gentler. And hell, Maverick might as well just become addicted to this.

“Can't complain either,” Mav whispers into Ice’s mouth, his own smile so wide his cheeks hurt, “I just happen to like you this much.”